Syros.

0:00

Thoughts forgot to arrive; the sun takes its time, and I took mine with that book about stoicism. Even if I could control something, I wouldn't; nothing demands control here. A lizard passes across the patio like it's on some secret mission, and I smile like we're two locals sharing the same quiet routine. Leo, the cat, prepares to stretch in the sunny spot like it's part of his job description. He takes it very seriously, with a full-body stretch and a dramatic sigh, then flops over like he's clocking in for another tough day of doing absolutely nothing. I respect it.

The neighbor's rooster is late again, which feels on-brand. He screams whenever he feels like it, sometimes noon, sometimes not at all. My phone's somewhere inside, probably on 4%, and I'm okay with that, but I want to check if she texted me. She never does, but you never know. I need to get up anyway to do my laundry, and that snail on the wall next to me is making more progress than I am. 

It's strange the things you start to notice when nothing is screaming for your attention. 

I used to think stillness was wasted time. If I wasn't doing, fixing, chasing, then I must be falling behind. But here, nothing's chasing me. There's no scoreboard. No one's checking in. And in the quiet, I'm starting to hear things I forgot how to listen to: my own breath, the rhythm of the day, the parts of me I left behind when I was too busy being busy. 

When everything around you demands performance, it is easy to forget yourself.

I think about the version of me who believed peace had to be earned, like a prize you unlock after enough burnout and self-sacrifice. But peace doesn't work like that. It's quiet. It doesn't show up with a finish line or applause. It just settles in beside you when you finally stop resisting the moment—soft, steady, almost easy to miss if you're not paying attention.

Afternoon arrives. I finish the fresh tomato salad with backyard tomatoes, which taste like something, a bit of olive oil and salt, nothing fancy. I ate slowly, like the salad, and I was having a conversation. I think about going back inside and starting the laundry, and then going to work, but the sunlight hits just right, and I don't move. Leo hasn't moved, either. We're both practicing a stillness that feels like wisdom.

I just made a Negroni. It's really interesting what equal measures of gin, vermouth, and Campari can do together. I am watching a bee dancing near that proud basil, as if it's trying to remember why it came over in the first place. I get it. I have days like that, too. The laundry isn't going anywhere. Neither is the world. For once, that feels comforting instead of overwhelming.

I've got nowhere better to be than exactly here.